953 


Kil 


IC-NRLF 


SB 


THE    HILL   OF   STONES 


AND 


OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

S.  WEIR  MITCHELL,  M.  D. 


HOUGHTOX,  MIFFLIX  AXD  COMPANY 
New  York:  11  East  Seventeenth  Street 

<2Tfre  nitcrsiDe  press,  «Camfirit)0e 
1883 

£._  "  "  ^--7.  ., 


Copyright,  1882, 
BT  S.  WEIR  MITCHELL. 


All  rights  reserved. 


"  *  J   »».       •      •»»».. 
c*  *     »       


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge: 
Printed  by  H.  0.  Hough  ton  and  Company. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGK 

THE  HILL  OF  STONES 1 

WIND  AND  SEA 20 

THE  SHRIVING  OF  GUINEVERE 33 

A  TALE  UNTOLD 40 

KEARSARGE 45 

How  THE  CUMBERLAND  WENT  DOWN 48 

HERNDON 51 

THE  QUAKER  GRAVEYARD 54 

LINES  TO  A  DESERTED  STUDY 56 

ELK  COUNTY 60 

CAMP-FIRE  LYRICS 67 

A  Camp  in  Three  Lights 67 

Night  —  Lake  Helen 69 

Nipigon  Lake 71 

Evening  Storm  —  Nipigon 72 

Noonday  Woods  —  Nipigon 73 

Paddle-Song 75 

After  Sunset  —  Lake  Weelokenebakok 77 

FRAGMENT  OF  A  CHIPPEWA  LEGEND 80 

THE  MARSH 82 

A  CONCEIT 86 


M125628 


iv  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

MILAN  :  DA  VINCI'S  CHRIST 88 

BRUGES  :   QUAI  DBS  AUGUSTINS 91 

NEAR  AMSTERDAM 93 

NEAR  UTRECHT 95 

ON  A  PICTURE  BY  ALBERT  CUYP 96 

AMSTERDAM  GALLERY       .  97 


THE    HILL   OF   STONES: 

A    LEGEND    OF   FONTAINEBLEAU. 

WE  two,  my  guide  and  I,  through  dusty  ways 
And  formal  avenues  of  well  pruned  trees, 
Went  past  the  village  and  thy  dark  gray  walls , 
Antique,  deserted  Fontainebleau ;  and  still 
With  talk  of  him  the  shade  of  whose  despair 
Lies  on  thy  court-yard  yet,  we  loitering 
Strolled   through    the    deeper   wood,    and   found 

at  last 
A   barren    space     that    crowned    a    hill's    green 

slope, 

Where,  lonely  as  a  king,  a  single  oak, 
Crippled  in  boisterous  battle  with  the  winds, 
And  gay  with  leafy  flattery  of  the  spring, 
Seemed  like  an  old  man,  cheated  suddenly 
1 


v  THE  HILL   OF  STONES. 

;  Witt   seme  .  StVeet.;dream    of   childhood's   tender 

hours. 

"  Here  let  us  rest,"  he  said,  and  casting  down 
His  woodman's  staff  set  out  upon  the  grass 
Twin  flasks  of  Le*oville  and  fair  white  loaves ; 
There  as  at  ease  we  lay,  and  ate  and  drank, 
My  roving  gaze  in  pleasant  wanderings  went 
Down      the      green      hill,    along     the     valley's 

range. 

The  noon-day  sun  hung  half  asleep  in  heaven, 
And  in  the  drowsied  wood  no  leaflet's  stir 
Broke    the    still     shadows     slumbering     on    the 

ground. 

Adown  the  hill,  beside  a  brook  that  lay 
A  silver  thread,  heat-wasted,  —  far  below, 
Gaunt  rocks  in  wild  confusion  tumbled  lay, 
Thick  strewn  along  the  narrowing  vale,  and  barred 
The  distant  thickets  with  their  broken  lines. 
High  on  the  further  hill,  twin  mount  to  ours, 
A  single  slab,  time-worn,  imperial,  towered, 


THE  HILL   OF  STONES.  3 

And  all  around  it  cumbering  the  sod 

A  stern  gray  host  of  barren  rocks  were  cast 

Each  upon  each, —  as  after  battle  lie 

The  dead  upon  the  dead,  to  war  no   more, — 

Whilst  over  them  the  hot  and  curdled  air 

Shook  in  uneasy  whirls  that  broke  the  crests 

Of  distant  trees  and  hill-tops  far  away. 

In  musing  wonder  tranced  I  lay  and  gazed 

Down  the  cleft  valley  o'er  the  waste  of  stones,  — 

The    while     my    comrade,    stretched    upon    the 

grass, 

Lay  whistling  cheerily  his  ballad  gay 
Of  good  king  Dagobert ;  or  smiling  told. 
With  frequent  urging,  in  his  rough  patois, 
Some  broken  bit  of  legendary  lore, 
And  at  the  last  a  story  of  these  stones. 

A  thousand  noisy  years  ago,  'tis  said, 

Along  yon  silent  vale  at  eventide 

A  bearded  king,  grown  weary  of  the  chase. 


4  THE  HILL   OF  STONES. 

Rode  thoughtful  home,  but  pausing  here  awhile, 
Said :  "  When  life  palls,  and  I  no  more  can  ride 
With    lance    in   rest,    or    smite    with    gleaming 

blade, 

When  sorrows  sweeten  the  near  cup  of  death, 
Then  in  this  valley's  quiet  I  will  build 
A  palace,  where  the  wise  and  old  shall  come, 
And  none  shall  talk   of  what   has  been,  and  all 
Shall  ponder,  with  clear  vision  looking  on 
To  that  which  is  to  be." 

Then  pensive  still 

He  turned  away,  and  westward  rode  again, 
Whilst  after  him  an  hundred  barons  came, 
And  riding  swiftly,  starred  at  intervals 
The    dark    wood     spaces    with    their    robes    of 

gold. 

Next   morn  at  Fontainebleau    the    bearded   king 
Held,  neath  the  oaks,  his  court,  when  suddenly 
A   young   knight,   breaking    through    the    outer 

guard, 


THE  HILL   OF  STONES.  6 

Leapt  featly  from  his  jaded  horse  and  cried, 
Like    one    whom    some    dream-wonder   spurs   to 

speech  : 

"  Good  Sire,  last  night  a  lonely  man  I  slept 
Upon  the  hill  you  love ;  and  where  at  eve 
The  bald  brown  summit  lay  a  dreary  waste, 
And  where  the  sun  of  yesterday  looked  down 
On  utter  solitude,  and  sowed  the  ground 
With  wild-eyed  violets  —  O  my  liege,  to-day 
There  stands  a  castle  fair  with  courts  and  towers 
And  turrets  tall  and  fretted  pinnacles 
Up-grown  by  night,  in  one   still   summer  night, 
As  if  fay-builded,  and  around  it  leap 
A  thousand  soaring  fountains,  and  the  air 
Reluctant  from  its  bowered  gardens  floats 
Sweet  with  strange  odors.     Underneath  a  porch 
Of  leaf  carved  masonry,  I  saw,  my  lord, 
As  peering  through  the  thicket's  fence  I  gazed, 
The  queen  of  women  holding  wondrous  court 
Of  maidens  only  just  less  fair  than  she  — 


6  THE  HILL   OF  STONES. 

Herself  the  haughtiest  woman  of  them  all, 
More  cold  and  stately  than  her  palace  keep." 
Then  said  the  king  :  "  The  good  knight's  brain  is 

crazed ; 

Or  hath  he  dreamed  ?  or  do  we  live  anew 
An  age  of  magic  ?  " 

"  Nay/'  the  knight  replied  ; 
"  I  dreamed  it  not ;  "  and  smiled  his  bearded  lord, 
While  merry  laughter  shook  the  mailed  ring. 
"  Give  me,  good  Sire,  to  seek  again  the  hill, 
And  fill  me  with  the  beauty  that  doth  glow 
In  her  deep  eyes,  and  either  I  will  bring 
This  royal  woman  back  again  with  me, 
Or  if  there  be  delusion  in  my  words, 
The  dream  will  break,  and  I  ashamed  shall  come 
To  this  fair  court  no  more."     Then  as  the  king 
In  silence  bent,  he  took  his  palfrey's  rein, 
And  downward  gazing  parted  wide  the  crowd, 
And  passed  the  yielding  wood. 

Whereon  the  king : 


THE  HILL   OF  STONES.  1 

41  The  test  is  fair;    'tis  chivalrous  and  just 
That  no  man  follow  him ; "  and  so  with  this 
He  went  alone,  and  was  no  more  with  men. 
Along  the  valley  up  the  tufted  sward 
By  cold-eyed  statues  underneath  an  arch 
Of  swaying  fountains  silently  he  went, 
And  half  dismayed  the  rosy  hedges  broke, 
And  saw  the  lady  and  her  maiden  court. 
Then  there  was  sweet  confusion,  and  a  wood 
Of  white  and  shining  arms  in  wonder  raised, 
And  low  quick  modest  cries  from  girls  who  fled 
For  shelter  in  the  thickets,  or  took  flight 
Behind  their  queenly  mistress.     She  alone 
Towered,  red  and  angry,  one  foot  forward  set. 
"O  woman  wonderful,"  he  cried  —  and  bent 
Before  the  tempest  of  her  stormy  eyes,  — 
"  Send  me  not  forth  alone  for  aye,  to  hold 
Thy  memory  only  like  a  dagger  sharp 
To    my   sad    heart ;    more    sweet    by    far  were 
death." 


8  THE  HILL   OF  STONES. 

"  Go,  sir,"  she  cried ;  "  what  right  hast  them  in 

me? 

Mine  only  is  my  beauty."     "Nay,"  he  urged, 
"  Save  that  God  put  them  in  the  world  with  us, 
What  right  have  we  in  yonder  wide  estate 
Of  sun  and  sky  and  flower  haunted  sod  ?  " 
"  No  man  on  earth  is  peer  of  mine,"  she  said, — 
And  saying  this  her  cold  eyes  fell  on  him. 
Her  cold  eyes  fell  on  him ;  and  deadly  pale, 
Bereft  of  thought,  as  one  who  gropes  along, 
He   turned   and    went,    whilst   scornful    laughter 

rang 

From  briery  thickets  everywhere  around, 
And  chased  his  quick  uncertain  steps,  that  brake 
The  garden  paths,  till  on  the  lone  hill-side 
A  sudden  coldness  fettered  limb  and  trunk, 
And  in  his  veins  the  liquid  life  grew  still, 
Whilst  form  and  feature  shrunk,  and   half  way 

down 
On  the  drear  mountain  side,  a  weight  of  stone 


THE  HILL   OF  STONES.  9 

The  knight  at  evening  lay,  to  love  no  more. 

Then  quoth  the  waiting  king  as  days  went  by : 

"  He  hath  not  as  he  promised  brought  us  back 

The  stately  mistress  of  his  fairy  hall. 

Who  is  there  here,  of  all  my  lords,  will  seek 

Yon  magic  palace,  and  with  winsome  wiles 

And  all  the  pleasant  archery  of  love, 

Fetch  me  this  woman,  captive  of  the  heart  ?  " 

"And  I,  and  I,  and  I,"  an  hundred  said; 

And  the  sharp  clangor  of  their  shaken  mail 

Rang  through  the  forest  ways,  as  up  they  leapt. 

So,  one  by  one,  as  the  cast  die  decreed, 

They   laughing   went,    and   were   no   more   with 

men. 

But  as  the  pleasant  days  of  summer  fled, 
Thick  clustered  stones  upon  the  hill-side  marked 
Where  slept  the  flower  of  all  that  kingly  court, 
And  heard  no  more  the  tread  of  dainty  feet 
Hail   foot -falls   round   them,   while    the    mellow 

tones 


10  THE  HILL   OF  STONES. 

Of  music  floating  from  the  terraced  lawns 
Struck  echoes  from  their  stony  forms  that  lay 
To   wait   their   brothers   when    the  curse  should 

fall. 

And  so  it  chanced,  that  as  the  hill-side  grew 
Aghast  with  stony  death,  all  living  things 
Its  deadly  boundaries  fled,  and  man  and  beast 
Turned  from  it  ever  with  unquiet  steps. 
Yet  now  and  then,  when  from  a  distant  steep 
The  shepherd  gazed,  he  saw  some  fated  man 
Climb  with  quick   strides  the  hill,  and   through 

the  stones 

Depart  from  view;  and  looking  then  again, 
Or  hours  or  days  thereafter,  scared  he  saw 
The  same  man,  cold  and  palsied,  issue  forth 
And  reel  and    die,  and  smite  the  summer  grass 
With  stony  weight.     And  yet  while  men  amazed 
Stared,  wondering  that  God  and  this  could  be, 
The  palace  towers,  ivy-curtained,  stood 
Unmoved  and  stern,  as  if  a  century  long 


THE  HILL   OF  STONES.  11 

Their  breadth  of  shade,  with  each  day's  march, 

had  crossed 

The  garden  moats,  and  seen  the  lily  buds 
Unbosom  tenderly  to  wild  wind  wooing 
Each  wanton  morning  of  a  hundred  Junes ; 
Still  ever  through  the  silence  of  the  night 
A  thousand  fountains  trembled  high  in  air, 
And  not  a  breeze  but  rich  as  laden  bee 
Sailed  from  the  garden,  heavy  with  the  freight 
Of  endless  music,  and  the  tender  chime 
Of  cadenced  .voices,  echoed  high  or  low 
From  porch  and  hall  and  windowed  gallery. 

Again  came  June  to  lordly  Fontainebleau, 

And  once  again  on  field  and  woodland  fell 

The  lazy  lull  of  noontide  drowsiness, 

Where  in  cool  caves  of  shadow  slept  the  winds, 

Whilst  warm  and  still  the  moveless  forest  lay. 

Therein  betimes  at  fitful  intervals, 

The  saintly  quiet  of  this  noonday  trance, 


12  THE  HILL   OF  STONES. 

Distant  and  grave,  a  solemn  anthem  filled, 
And,    soaring     lark-like     through    the    listening 

leaves 

That  trembled  with  its  sorrow,  died  away ; 
But  in  its  place  a  hymn  rose,  sweet  and  clear, 
Such  as  at  evening  coming  from  the  wells, 
With  balanced  water-jars  upon  their  heads, 
The  maidens  sing. 

And  thus  from  leafy  shades 
A  knight  full  armed  rode,  singing  as  he  went :  — 


In  olden  days  did  Christ  decree 
Twelve  knightly  hearts  with  him  to  be, 
And  bade  them  wear  no  armor  bright 
Save  charity  and  conscience  white. 

And  through  all  lands  they  went  and  came, 
Not  covetous  of  earthly  fame, 
And  gave  the  alms  of  Christian  cheer 
To  lowly  serf  and  haughty  peer. 


THE  HILL   OF  STONES.  13 

For  Christ  they  fought  with  word  and  prayer, 
For  Christ  they  died,  —  oh  birthright  fair! 
Sweet  Mary  Mother  grant  to  me 
That  I,  like  them,  pure  hearted  be. 


Then  as  the  knight  rode  on  through  sun  to  shade, 
And  sang  how  good  deeds,  mightier  than  kings, 
Are  as  the  holy  accolade  of  God, 
And  bid  the  poorest  rise  a  knight  of  Christ, 
From  branch   and   thicket   came    the   birds,  and 

sailed 

Around  his  silver  casque,  and  caroling 
Awoke  the  sleeping  breezes,  till  he  rode 
With  tossing  plumes  upon  the  open  hill. 
There  all  day  long  in    silence  wrapt,  the  knight 
Knelt    on    the   green    turf   gathering   faith    and 

strength  ; 

And  all  day  long  the  same  sweet  retinue 
Of  summer  songsters  circled  round  his  head. 
When  fell  the  night  he  rose  and  stern  and  calm, 


14  THE  HILL   OF  STONES. 

Unlaced  his  armor  slowly,  piece  by  piece, 
Laid  down  his  helmet  and  his  spurs  of  gold, 
Ungirt  his  sword,  and  cast  its  jeweled  weight 
Beside  his  spear  upon  the  burdened  grass. 
Then  all  unarmed  and  weaponless,  he  strode 
Adown  the  hill,  and  sad  and  silent  wound 
Its  cumbering  stones  among,  till  by  the  brook 
Kneeling  he  crossed  himself,  and  stayed  no  more, 
But  through  the  night,  white  robed  and  tranquil, 

went, 

Passed  in  among  the  wood  of  founts  that  shook 
Their  silvery  leafage  in  the  moonlight  gray, 
Crossed   with   quick   step   the    flower-beds,    and 

passed 

Where  gleaming  statues  sentineled  the  path ; 
Then    while    the    mirth    rose   wildest,    and    the 

sound 

Of  merry  music  shook  the  stems  he  touched, 
He   broke  the  rose-hedge,  and  untroubled  stood 
Amidst  the  wonder  of  the  magic  court. 


THE  HILL   OF  STONES.  15 

Grave,  glancing  right  and  left,  quoth  he  aloud : 
"  The  peace  of  God,  which   passeth  other  peace, 
Be  on  ye  ever,"  —  and  so  trembling  stood 
Dazed  by  the  mystery  of  half  seen  limbs 
And  rosy  secrets,  chastened  by  the  moon. 
Swift  moving   through    her   shrinking   court,  the 

queen, 

A  head  above  them  towering,  flushed  with  wrath, 
Shook  from  white   neck   and  arms  the  roses  red 
That,  ere  he  came,  a  hundred  laughing  girls 
Showered  from  quick  hands,  which  on  a  sudden 

checked, 
Drooped  with  their  flowery  loads,  —  and  "  Sir," 

she  cried  : 

"  Knightly  it  was,  and  noble  thus  to  come ; 
Dost  dream  as  others  have  to  woo  us  home  ? " 
"  Most  near  the  holy  love  of  God,"  he  said, 
"  Is  such  deep  worship  as  a  knightly  heart 
Doth  give  in  some  one  woman  unto  all ; 
And  whatsoever  hath  love's  sweet  disguise 


16  THE  HILL  OF  STONES. 

Should  in  the  tender  eye  of  woman  win 

The  gentle  estimate  of  charity." 

"  A  priest,"  she  cried,  —  and  smote   the   ground 

and  shook 

The  lingering  roses  from  her  fallen  hair  ; 
Upon    the    ground    the    good    knight    kneeling 

prayed : 
"  God  grant,"  he  murmured,  "  all  my  heart   be 

pure, 

Such  love  I  give  thee,  woman,  as  thou  hadst 
For  yonder  stones,  my  brothers,  they  who  lie 
Awaiting  God  upon  the  mountain  side." 
"Enough,"  she  cried;   "go,  fool,  and  share  with 

them 

Their  folly  and  their  fate."     And  so  on  him 
Her  cold-eyed  anger  fell,  and  still  and  chill 
In  the  white  moonlight  they  two  stood  and  gazed 
Each  on  the  other,  steady,  eye  to  eye 
And  yet  he  went  not,  though  through  trunk  and 

limb 


THE  HILL  OF  STONES.  17 

The  slow  blood  crept,  and  on  his  lip  a  prayer 
Died  in  the  saying. 

"  Thou  shalt  go,"  she  cried  ; 
And,  bending,  garnered  from  the  flowery  fence 
A  rosy  handful.     Then  with  scorn  cast  back 
The  snowy  cloak  that  drifted  from  her  neck, 
And  crying  once  a  shrill  and  gnarled  phrase, 
Smote  with  the  roses  red  his  startled  face. 
On  brow  and  cheek  the  flying  roses  struck, 
And  fell  not  down  again,  for  suddenly 
Twin   petals  flashed    to   wings ;   and    they   who 

looked 

Saw  bud  and  blossom  turned  to  flitting  birds, 
Which  through  the  broken  moonlight  went  and 

came, 
And   sang    sweet    carols  round   the   white-robed 

knight, 

This  while  the  lady  stood  amazed  and  still  ; 
And  all  her  court  of  wonder  fettered  maids 

Like  silence  kept  for  fear,  till  at  the  last 
2 


18  THE  HILL   OF  STONES. 

The  good  knight,  marveling,  put  out  his  hand, 
And  took  the  lady's  finger  tips,  and  went 
With  knightly  courtesy  and  silent  grace 
Along  the  garden  paths.     And  as  they  passed, 
Behind    their    steps     the    wind     tossed    grasses 

shrunk, 

The  flowers  drooped,  the  noisy  fountains  ceased, 
And  vase  and  statue,  fading  into  mist, 
Went  floating  formless  from  the  mountain  top. 
Still  on  they  moved,  she  like  a  lily  bent, 
And  all  her  women  slowly  followed  her. 
"  Here  pause,"  he  said,  and  on  the  middle  slope 
Her   trembling   maids  fell    moaning   round   their 

Queen, 

A  silver  ring  upon  the  dark  green  turf. 
"Behold  morn  waketh,"   said  the   knight;  "no 

more, 

No  more  for  you  shall  any  morning  wake  ; 
I  charge  you  look  along  yon  valley  drear." 
Thereon  she  silent  raised  her  head  and  gazed 


THE  HILL   OF  STONES.  19 

Adown  the  hill-side  thick  with  deathful  stones, 
And  felt  in  heart  and  vein  the  pulsing  blood 
Stand  still  and  curdle.     So  the  hand  he  held 
Stayed  pointing  down  the  valley,  and  he  leapt 
Across  the  ring  of  cold  and  moveless  forms, 
And  walked  in  wonder  down  the  mountain  side, 
And  she  and  they  stayed  waiting  on  the  hill 
In  endless  horror  gazing  evermore,  — 
A  tumbled  heap  of  dreary  rocks,  that  lay 
About  the  statue  of  their  stony  Queen. 


WIND  AND   SEA. 
SCENE  I. 

A  June  Afternoon.  —  Meadows.  —  A  Farm,  with  distant 
Woods;  New  Jersey   Coast;  Cape  May. 

AN  idle  group  within  the  willow's  shade 
We  lay  and  chatted,  holding  lazy  tilts, 
And  many  a  lance  of  mocking  laughter  broke, 
Or  calmly  settled  creeds  and  governments 
High  on  the  pleasant  uplands  of  content, 
Till  soon  the  westering  sun  peeped  underneath 
The  fringes  of  our  green  tent  skirts,  and  fell, 
Where  on  the  paling-fence  the  milk  cans  gleamed 
Red  in  the  level  gold,  whilst  suddenly, 
Swift  from  the  sea,  the  gay  salt  breezes  came, 
And,  dipping  like  the  swallows  here  and  there, 
With  quick  cool  kisses  touched  the  startled  grain, 


WIND  AND  SEA.  21 

And  fled  ashamed,  to  seek  new  loves  afar, 
Where  in  the  dark  damp  marsh  the  lilies  float, 
And  lustrous  leaved  the  white  magnolia  lifts 
Its  silvery  censers,  and  the  frogs,  like  friars, 
Intone  their  even-song  from  stump  and  log. 

HESTER  (rising). 

t 

How  sweet  the  air.     What  was  it  that  you  sang 
Of  this  same  north  wind's  winter  pranks? 

The  lusty  north  wind  all  night  long 
His  carols  sang  above  my  head, 

And  shook  the  roof,  and  roused  the  fire, 
And  with  the  cold  red  morning  fled. 

Yet  ere  he  left,  upon  my  panes 

He  drew,  with  bold  and  easy  hand, 

Pine  and  fir,  and  icy  bergs, 

And  frost  ferns  of  his  northern  land ; 

And  southward,  like  the  Northmen  old 
Whose  ships  he  drove  across  the  seas, 


22  WIND  AND  SEA. 

Has  gone  to  fade  where  roses  grow, 
And  die  among  the  orange-trees. 


ALFRED. 

That 's  music  for  a  poet's  soul,  his  words 
Soft  slipping  from  a  woman's  lips,  the  while 
Caressed  by  lingering  sunshine  wrapt  she  stands, 
A  saintly  aureole  round  her  shining  hair. 


A  bid  for  equal  flattery.     Let  us  go 
Across  the  sand  dunes  o'er  the  mazy  creeks. 
Hear  how  old  ocean  calls  us.     Come  away. 

FRANK. 

Dost  thou  remember  that  October  day 
We  three  together  stood  and  saw  at  eve 
The  wanton  wind  yon  sleeping  Samson  rouse, 
Till  at  the  touch  of  that  coy  courtesan 
Strange    yearnings    seized   him,  and   with   shout 
and  cry 


WIND  AND  SEA.  23 

He  followed  fleetly,  while  she,  laughing,  sought 
The  nodding  golden-rods  above  the  beach. 

HE  NET. 

Ay,  then  it  was  you,  perched  beneath  an  oak, 
To  us,  the  long  expectant  heirs,  set  forth 
King  Autumn's  testament  and  royal  will. 


I  pray  you  tell  again  his  dying  thoughts, 
And  we  shall  lie  upon  the  meadow  grass 
And  be  as  heirs  should  be,  stern  visaged,  grave, 
Whilst   you  within    yon    bower    of   wild    grapes 

stand : 

So  shall  your  words  steal  o'er  the  listening  ear, 
Breeze  broken,  while  the  melancholy  sea 
Moans  his  sad  chorus  on  the  distant  shore. 

FRANK. 

Brown  visaged  Autumn  sat  within  the  wood, 
And  counted  miserly  his  ripened  wealth ; 


24  WIND  AND  SEA. 

The  last  crisped  leaves  sailed  sauntering  to  earth, 
The  gentle  winds  stole  by,  and  made  no  noise,  — 
Stole  by  on  tip-toe,  and  the  tree-frog  shrill 
Sang  curfew  to  the  nearly  hidden  moon. 
I,  Autumn,  heritor  of  Summer's  wealth,  — 
I,  Autumn,  who  am  old  and  near  to  death, — 
Do  thus  make  clear  my  will :  I  dowered  earth 
With    fruit    and    flowers.      I    fed    her    hungry 

tribes, 

The  bee,  the  bird,  the  worm,  the  lazy  flocks, 
And  like  a  king  who  unto  certain  death 
Goes  proudly  clad,  in  royal  state  I  go, 
Through  the  long  sunset  of  October  woods, 
Where  like  a  trembling  maid  the  smooth-limbed 

beech 

Lets  fall  her  ruddy  robes,  or  where  afield 
Red  vine  leaves  fleck  the  cedar's  sombre  cone, 
Or  where  the  maple  and  the  hickory  tall 
Shed  the  long  summer'fe  store  of  garnered  gold. 
Mine,  too,  the  orchard'/!  raining  fruit,  and  mine 


WIND  AND  SEA.  25 

Round-shouldered  melons  fattening  in  the  sun ; 
Mine  the  brown  pennons  of  the  rustling  maize, 
The  squirrel's  nutty  wealth,  the  crumpled  gourd. 
For  I  am  Autumn,  lord  of  fruits  and  flowers,  — 
God's  almoner  to  all  the  tribes  of  man. 
Here,  then,  to  earth  and  all  her  habitants, 
Dying,  I  leave  what  Summer's  bounty  gave: 
Great    store    of    grain,    ripe    fruit,    and    tasseled 

corn ; 

Yea,  last  of  all,  and  best,  I  here  bequeath, 
With  loving  thought,  a  special  legacy 
To  all  good  fellows  everywhere  on  earth  : 
To  them  I  give  the  sun-kissed  grapes  of  Spain, 
The  Rhine's  autumnal  treasure,  and  the  fruit 
Of  knightly  Burgundy  and  winding  Rhone; 
Nor  less  the  grape  of  Capri's  lifted  cliff, 
The  purple  globes  that  jewel  Ischia's  isle, 
And  that  sad  vintage  weeping  holy  tears 
On  black  Vesuvius'  breast.     To  them  I  give 
The  soothing  sweetness  of  the  Cuban  leaf 


26  WIND  AND  SEA. 

Wherewith  to  hold  good  counsel,  when  life  palls 
Wherewith  to  charm  away  some  weary  hour. 
And  when   from    thoughtful    lips    the   pale  blue 

wreaths 

Curl  upward,  or,  the  wanderer's  only  hearth, 
His  pipe-bowl,  glows  with  hospitable  fires, 
I  charge  them  drink  a  single  cup,  and  say, 
He  was  a  good  old  fellow —  peace  to  him. 
So  died  great  Autumn,  passing  like  a  mist, 
Where  in  the  woodland  verge  the  maples  rain 
Reluctant  gold  in  hesitating  fall. 

ALFRED  (to  HESTER). 

See  but  our  poet,  all  aglow  he  stands, 
No  light-house,  'mid  the  passion  of  the  deep, 
More  still  than  he,  amid  his  stir  of  thought. 
What  ho !  good  minstrel.     Let  us  seaward  roam, 
'T  is  but  a  half  hour's  stroll  past  yonder  hill. 


WIND  AND  SEA.  27 


FRANK. 

I  well  recall  the  way.     It  lies  within 
A  wood  of  stunted  cedars  and  of  firs, 
Which  heard  in  infancy  the  great  sea  moan, 
And  so  took  on  the  wilted  forms  of  fright. 

HESTER. 

Well,  too,  I  know  it:  when  the  tide  is  up 
'T  is  barred  and  traversed  by  an  hundred  creeks, 
So  populous  with  lilies  you  might  dream 
King  Oberon's  navy  rode  at  anchor  there. 

FRANK. 

Let  us  away  to  it.     Our  sculptor  here 
Knows  not  the  sea  as  we  do.     He  shall  feast 
His  eager  eyes  on  it,  and  own  to  us 
That  earth  has  glories  other  than  the  curves 
Of  lithe  Apollo  and  the  queen  of  love. 


28  WIND  AND  SEA. 


SCENE  II. 
Sea  Shore.  —  Sand  Dunes  dotted  with  stunted  Trees. 

HENRY. 

Why  never  can  the  painter  tell  to  us 
This  awful  story  of  a  lonely  sea,    . 
This  terrible  soliloquy  of  nature  ? 
Why  must  he  slip  us  in  the  bit  of  red, 
The  group  of  fishers  or  the  tossing  ship? 
Who  asks  for  life  or  human  action  here  ? 

FRANK. 

Nay,  man  is  nature's  complement.     The  sea, 

The  sky,  the  flowers  suggest  him.     Well,  I  love 

The  smiling  landscape  of  a  woman's  face, 

So  quaintly  various,  its  two  coy  lakes, 

Its  rippling  laughter,  and  its  tearful  showers. 


WIND  AND  SEA.  29 


But  he  who  worships  nature,  ought  to  be 
The  ready  lover  of  her  thousand  gods, 
His  heart  a  home  for  every  noble  thought. 

HESTER. 

And  such  a  thought  is  yon  triumphant  sea, 
A  thought,  so  statue  like,  so  competent, 
That  I  would  leave  it  to  its  loneliness. 

ALFRED. 

Think  what  it  was  when  unto  God  there  came 
This  great  sea  thought. 


Here,  friend,  your  chisel  fails; 
'T  is  powerless  here.  Thank  Heaven,  I  at  least 
Can  some  way  capture  it  with  feeble  brush. 


30  WIND  AND  SEA. 

ALFRED. 

Alas  'tis  no  man's  prize.     It  mocks  us  all. 
Leave  me  but  only  man,  and  you  may  paint, 
And  you  may  chisel.     I  would  sail  alone 
The  great  Atlantic  of  the  human  heart. 

HENRY. 

Do  you  remember  how,  last  summer,  here 
We  played  with  fancies,  and  like  idle  lads 
Struck  to  and  fro  the  shuttlecocks  of  thought. 

FRANK. 

Ah,  well  I  do.     'Twas  such  an  hour  as  comes 
Once  in  the  life  of  joy.     Just  here  we  lay, 
As  oft  before  you  led  the  playful  race. 

HENRY. 

Watch  now  the  waves;  each  has  his  little  life 
High  couraged  triumph  in  his  crest  of  pride, 


WIND  AND  SEA.  31 

Some  proud  decision  in  his  onward  sweep,  — 
Destruction,  failure,  —  't  is  a  history  ! 

FKAXK. 

And  wilder  yet,  when  of  a  winter  day 
The  cold  dry  norther  rolls  athwart  the  beach 
The  gleaming  foam  balls  into  serpents  white, 
And  all  the  sand  is  starred  with  rainbow  lights. 


It  knoweth  all  the  secrets  of  my  moods: 
To-day  is  gay  with  me,  to-morrow  grave. 


And  still  for  me  sad  always,  —  terrible, 

As  some  God's  grief  beyond  all  earthly  speech. 

HESTER. 

Lo  wave  on  wave  turns  lapsing  on  the  beach, 
Like  the  great  leaves  of  some  eternal  book. 


32  WIND  AND  SEA. 


Unread  forever.     Lo,  the  sun  has  fled. 
I  pray  you  notice  how  the  sea-side  trees 
Seem  flying  headlong,  all    their  withering  limbs 
Stretched  landward,  craving  refuge  from  the  sea. 

FRANK. 

As  they  might  be  remorseful  murderers, 
That  heard  the   hoarse  deep,  like  to  angry  foes, 
Storm  up  the  sand  slopes  —  nearer,  nearer  still, 
Crying,    vengeance,    vengeance    all    the   summer 
night. 


THE   SHRIVING   OF    GUINEVERE. 

STILL  she  stood  in  the  shunning  crowd. 
"  Is  there  none,"  she  said,  aloud, 
"  None  who  knelt  to  me,  great  and  proud, 
Will  say  one  word  for  me,  sad  and  bowed? 
Alas  !  it  seems  to  me,  if  I 
Were  one  of  you,  who,  standing  by, 
Hear  gathered  in  a  woman's  cry 
The  years  of  such  an  agony, 
It  seemeth  me  that  I  would  take 
Sweet  pity's  side  for  mine  own  sake, 
And,  knowing  guilt  alone  should  quake, 
For  chance  of  right  one  battle  make." 
But,  no  man  heeding  her,  she  stayed 
Beneath  the  linden's  trembling  shade, 
And  peered,  half  hopeful,  half  afraid, 
While  passed  in  silence  man  and  maid. 


34  THE  SHRIVING   OF  GUINEVERE. 

She,  staring  on  the  stone-dry  street 
Through  the  long  summer-noonday  heat, 
And,  stirring  never  from  her  seat, 
Half  saw  men's  shadows  pass  her  feet. 
"Ah  me!"  she  murmured,  "  well  I  see 
How  bitter  each  day's  life  may  be 
To  them  who  have  not  where  to  flee 
And  are  as  one  with  misery." 
But,  whether  knight  to  tourney  rode, 
Or  bridal  garments  past  her  flowed, 
Or  by  some  bier  slow  mourners  trode, 
No  sign  of  life  the  woman  showed. 

When  as  the  priestly  evening  threw 
The  blessed  waters  of  the  dew, 
About  her  head  her  cloak  she  drew 
And  hid  her  face  from  every  view; 
Till,  as  the  twilight  grew  to  shade, 
And  passed  no  more  or  man  or  maid, 
A  sudden  hand  was  on  her  laid. 


THE  SHRIVING   OF  GUINEVERE.  35 

"  And  who  art  thou  ?  "  she  moaned,  afraid  ; 
Beside  her  one  of  visage  sad 
Which  yet  to  see  made  sorrow  glad 
Stood,  in  a  knight's  white  raiment  clad, 
But  neither  sword  nor  poniard  had. 

u  One  who  has  loved  you  well,"  he  said. 

"  Living  I  loved  you  well,  and  dead 
I  love  you  still;  when  joys  were  spread 
Like  flowers,  and  greatness  crowned  your  head, 
None  loved  you  more.     Not  Arthur  gave  — 
He  will  not  check  me  from  his  grave  — 
So  pure  a  love;  nor  Launcelot  brave 
With  deeper  love  had  yearned  to  save." 

"  Then,"  said  the  woman,  still  at  bay, 

"  Why  do  I  tremble  when  you  lay 
A  hand  upon  my  shoulder  ?     Stay, 
What  is  thy  name,  sir  knight,  I  pray  ? 
For  wheresoever  memory  chase 
I  know  not  one  such  troubled  face, 
Nor  one  that  hath  such  godly  grace 


36  THE  SHRIVING  OF  GUINEVERE. 

Of  solemn  sweetness  any  place : 
But,  whatsoever  man  thou  be, 
What  is  it  I  should  do  for  thee  ?  " 
Whereon,  he,  smiling  cheerily, 
Said  :  "  I  would  have  thee  follow  me." 

Not  any  answer  did  he  wait, 

But  turned  towards  the  city  gate  ; 

Not  any  word  said  she,  but  straight 

Went  after,  bent  and  desolate; 

And,  as  a  dream  might  draw,  he  drew 

Her  feet  to  action,  till  she  knew 

That  house  and  palace  round  her  grew, 

And  some  wild  revel's  reeling  crew, 

And  dame  and  page  and  squire  and  knight, 

And  torches  flashing  on  the  sight, 

And  fiery  jewels  flaming  bright, 

And  love  and  music  and  delight ; 

But  slow  across  the  spangled  green 

The  stern  knight  went  and  went  the  queen, 


THE  SHRIVING  OF  GUINEVERE.  37 

He  solemn,  silent,  and  serene, 

She  bending  low  with  humble  mien. 

But  where  he  turned  the  music  died, 

Love-parted  lips  no  more  replied, 

And,  shrinking  back  on  either  side, 

Serf  and  lord  stared,  wonder-eyed, 

Or  marveling  shrunk  swift  away 

Before  that  visage  solemn,  gray, 

Till,  where  the  leaping  fountains  sway, 

Thick  showed  the  knights  in  white  array. 

There  where  he  passed,  though  moved  no  breeze, 

The  leaves  stirred  trembling  on  the  trees  ; 

And  where  he  looked,  by  slow  degrees 

Fell  silence  and  some  strange  unease, 

Whilst  whispers  ran  :  "  Who  may  it  be  ? 

What  knight  is  this  ?     And  who  is  she  ?  " 

But  only  Gawain  looked  to  see, 

And,  praying,  fell  upon  his  knee. 

Then  said  a  voice  full  solemnly  : 

Of  all  the  knights  that  look  on  me, 


38  THE  SHRIVING   OF   GUINEVERE. 

If  only  one  of  them  there  be 

That  never  hath  sinned  wittingly, 

Let  him  the  woman  first  disown, 

Let  him  be  first  to  cast  a  stone 

At  one,  who,  fallen  from  a  throne, 

Is  sad  and  weary  and  alone. 

Him,  when  the  lists  of  God  are  set, 

Him,  when  the  knights  of  God  are  met, 

If  that  he  lacketh  answer  yet, 

The  soul  of  him  shall  answer  get." 

Then,  as  a  lily  bowed  with  rain 

Leaps  shedding  it,  she  shed  her  pain, 

And  towering  looked  where  men,  like  grain 

Storm-humbled,  bent  upon  the  plain  ; 

Whilst  over  her  the  cold  night  air 

Throbbed  with  some  awful  pulse  of  prayer, 

As,  bending  low  with  reverent  care, 

She  kissed  the  good  knight's  raiment  fair. 

When  as  she  trembling  rose  again, 


TEE  SHRIVING  OF  GUINEVERE.  39 

And  felt  no  more  in  heart  and  brain 
The  weary  weight  of  sin  and  pain, 
For  him  that  healed  she  looked  in  vain ; 
And  from  the  starry  heavens  immense 
Unto  her  soul  with  penitence 
Came,  as  if  felt  by  some  new  sense, 
The  noise  of  wings  departing  thence. 


A   TALE   UNTOLD. 

SWIFTLY  over  purple  clover, 
Through  and  under  swaying  leaves, 
Past  the  brookside's  dipping  willows, 
In  among  the  upland  sheaves, 

Where  the  tumbled  grasses  sparkle, 
Comes  the  wholesome  northern  breeze, 
Shaking,  breaking,  mending  shadows, 
'Neath  the  thin  leaved  orchard  trees. 

Shut  your  eyes,  dear  love,  I  whispered, 
While  your  own  heart  sings  a  song, 
Something  the  wind  shall  tell,  but  haste 
Hide  me  not  those  sweet  eyes  long. 


A   TALE   UNTOLD.  41 

A  song  will  come  as  your  birds  at  call ; 
Fill  it  full  of  the  mystic  power 
That  climbs  the  sun-warmed  trunks,  and  brings 
Yearning  dreams  to  bird  and  flower. 

And  so  she  lay  with  brown  eyes  shut, 
Eyes  more  sweet  than  any  be, 
And  murmured  faint:  The  ships  of  thought 
Come  swift  across  a  fairy  sea. 

Royal  gifts  thy  galleons  bring  thee, 
Ventures  strange  of  sunset  gold,  — 
Poet  songs  in  love  dreams  murmured, 
Cargoes  rare  of  stories  old. 

Then  passed  her  merry  mood  away ;  — 
Love,  she  cried,  not  mine  the  tale, 
By  thought's  swift  stream  I  sit  to  hear 
Its  waters,  that  laugh  or  waiL 


42  A   TALE   UNTOLD. 

And  love,  I  quake  to  hear  how  wild, 
And  sorrow  to  hear  how  sweet, 
The  murmured  songs  I  cannot  keep, 
The  thoughts  that  die  at  my  feet. 

Yet  one  quaint  song  I  hold  in  thrall, 
To  tell  ere  the  lordly  freight 
Shall  perish  with  the  fairy  ships 
Your  fancy  launched  but  of  late. 

An  easy  flow  of  warbled  words, 
Quaint  as  the  antique  tongue  of  birds, 
Akin  to  theirs  in  likeness  sweet, 
Full  thronged  with  meanings  incomplete ; 
For  she  had  shared,  I  think,  with  these, 
Of  nature's  woodland  mysteries; 
Because,  to  hear  her  speech  aright, 
The  booming  bee  would  check  his  flight, 
And,  like  to  one  in  foreign  lands, 
Who  hears  a  tongue  he  understands, 


A   TALE   UNTOLD.  43 

The  startled  swallow  dipped  so  near 
He  almost  touched  my  lady's  ear. 
Love-treason  were  it  I  should  tell 
The  charm-words  of  that  dainty  spell; 
As  lief  would  I,  if  well  I  knew 

The  secret  of  each  forest  bower, 
Their  virgin  whispers  tell  to  you, 

To  while  away  a  common  hour. 
Or  could  I  learn  what  gracious  words 
Wake  up  betimes  the  drowsy  birds, 
When  in  the  first-born  morning  breeze 
Take  exercise  the  stately  trees, 
With  great  limbs  swinging  full  of  strength, 
As  when  a  giant's  easy  length 
Doth  take  delight  on  buoyant  seas. 
'T  were  vain  to  ask  with  me  to  share 
The  thoughts  of  earth,  or  sea,  or  air, 
Because  their  voice  to  understand 
You  must  have  been  sea,  air,  or  land. 
But  if  the  riddle  sound  untrue, 


44  A   TALE   UNTOLD. 

Some  woman  witch  will  read  it  you. 

So  is  it  I  would  only  share 

With  woodland  folk  her  song  of  prayer,  — 

With  these  plumed  citizens  of  June, 

Her  echoes  of  their  joyous  tune  ; 

With  them  alone  the  graver  chants 

That  roused  their  choir  in  orchard  haunts, 

And  answered  with  a  loving  grace 

The  challenge  of  my  yearning  face. 


KEARSARGE l 

SUNDAY  in  Old  England: 
In  gray  churches  everywhere 

The  calm  of  low  responses, 
The  sacred  hush  of  prayer. 

Sunday  in  Old  England  ; 
i 

And  summer  winds  that  went 

O'er  the  pleasant  fields  of  Sussex, 
The  garden  lands  of  Kent, 

Stole  into  dim  church  windows 
And  passed  the  oaken  door, 

1  On  Sunday  morning,  June  19,  1864,  the  noise  of  the  cannons 
during  the  fight  between  the  Kearsarge  and  the  Alabama  was 
heard  in  English  churches  near  the  Channel. 


46  KEAESARGE. 

And  fluttered  open  prayer-books 
With  the  cannon's  awful  roar. 

Sunday  in  New  England: 

Upon  a  mountain  gray 
The  wind-bent  pines  are  swaying 

Like  giants  at  their  play ; 

Across  the  barren  lowlands, 
Where  men  find  scanty  food, 

The  north  wind  brings  its  vigor 
To  homesteads  plain  and  rude. 

Ho,  land  of  pine  and  granite! 

Ho,  hardy  northland  breeze! 
Well  have  you  trained  the  manhood 

That  shook  the  Channel  seas, 

When  o'er  those  storied  waters 
The  iron  war-bolts  flew, 


REARS  ARGE.  47 

And  through  Old  England's  churches 
The  summer  breezes  blew; 

While  in  our  other  England 
Stirred  one  gaunt  rocky  steep, 

When  rode  her  sons  as  victors, 
Lords  of  the  lonely  deep. 


HOW  THE  CUMBERLAND  WENT  DOWN. 

GKAY  swept  the  angry  waves 
O'er  the  gallant  and  the  true, 

Rolled  high  in  mounded  graves 
O'er  the  stately  frigate's  crew  — 

Over  cannon,  over  deck, 

Over  all  that  ghastly  wreck, — 

When  the  Cumberland  went  down. 

Such  a  roar  the  waters  rent 

As  though  a  giant  died, 
When  the  wailing  billows  went 

Above  those  heroes  tried ; 
And  the  sheeted  foam  leaped  high, 
Like  white  ghosts  against  the  sky,  — 
As  the  Cumberland  went  down. 


HOW  THE   CUMBERLAND   WENT  DOWN.     49 

O  shrieking  waves  that  gushed 

Above  that  loyal  band, 
Your  cold,  cold  burial  rushed 

O'er  many  a  heart  on  land ! 
And  from  all  the  startled  North 
A  cry  of  pain  broke  forth, 

As  the  Cumberland  went  down. 

And  forests  old,  that  gave 

A  thousand  years  of  power 
To  her  lordship  of  the  wave 

And  her  beauty's  regal  dower, 
Bent,  as  though  before  a  blast, 
When  plunged  her  pennoned  mast, 

And  the  Cumberland  went  down. 

And  grimy  mines  that  sent 

To  her  their  virgin  strength, 
And  iron  vigor  lent 

To  knit  her  lordly  length, 


50     HOW  THE  CUMBERLAND    WENT  DOWN. 

Wildly  stirred  with  throbs  of  life, 
Echoes  of  that  fatal  strife, 

As  the  Cumberland  went  down. 

Beneath  the  ocean  vast, 

Full  many  a  captain  bold, 
By  many  a  rotting  mast, 

And  admiral  of  old, 
Rolled  restless  in  his  grave 
As  he  felt  the  sobbing  wave, 

When  the  Cumberland  went  down. 

And  stern  Vikings  that  lay 

A  thousand  years  at  rest, 
In  many  a  deep  blue  bay 

Beneath  the  Baltic's  breast, 
Leaped  on  the  silver  sands, 
And  shook  their  rusty  brands, 

As  the  Cumberland  went  down. 


HERNDON. 

AY,  shout  and  rave,  thou  cruel  sea, 
In  triumph  o'er  that  fated  deck, 

Grown  holy  by  another  grave  — 
Thou  hast  the  captain  of  the  wreck. 

No  prayer  was  said,  no  lesson  read, 
O'er  him,  the  soldier  of  the  sea  ; 

And  yet  for  him,  through  all  the  land, 
A  thousand  thoughts  to-night  shall  be. 


And  many  an  eye  shall  dim  with  tears, 
And  many  a  cheek  be  flushed  with  pride  ; 

And  men  shall  say,  There  died  a  man, 
And  boys  shall  learn  how  well  he  died. 


52  EERNDON. 

Ay,  weep  for  him,  whose  noble  soul 
Is  with  the  God  who  made  it  great; 

But  weep  not  for  so*  proud  a  death,  — 
We  could  not  spare  so  grand  a  fate. 

Nor  could  Humanity  resign 

That  hour  which  bade  her  heart  beat  high, 
And  blazoned  Duty's  stainless  shield, 

And  set  a  star  in  Honor's  sky. 

O  dreary  night !     O  grave  of  hope  ! 

O  sea,  and  dark,  unpitying  sky  ! 
Full  many  a  wreck  these  waves  shall  claim 

Ere  such  another  heart  shall  die. 

Alas,  how  can  we  help  but  mourn 

When  hero  bosoms  yield  their  breath! 

A  century  itself  may  bear 

But  once  the  flower  of  such  a  death ; 


EERNDON.  53 

So  full  of  manliness,  so  sweet 

With  utmost  duty  nobly  done ; 
So  thronged  with  deeds,  so  filled  with  life, 

As  though  with  death  that  life  begun. 

It  has  begun,  true  gentleman ! 

No  better  life  we  ask  for  thee  ; 
Thy  Viking  soul  and  woman  heart 

Forever  shall  a  beacon  be,  — 

A  starry  thought  to  veering  souls, 

To  teach  it  is  not  best  to  live; 
To  show  that  life  has  naught  to  match 

Such  knighthood  as  the  grave  can  give. 


THE   QUAKER   GRAVEYARD. 

FOUR  straight  brick  walls,  severely  plain, 
A  quiet  city  square  surround ; 

A  level  space  of  nameless  graves,  — 
The  Quakers'  burial-ground. 

In  gown  of  gray,  or  coat  of  drab, 
They  trod  the  common  ways  of  life, 

With  passions  held  in  sternest  leash, 
And  hearts  that  knew  not  strife. 

To  yon  grim  meeting-house  they  fared, 
With  thoughts  as  sober  as  their  speech, 

To  voiceless  prayer,  to  songless  praise, 
To  hear  their  elders  preach. 


THE   QUAKER  GRAVEYARD.  55 

Through  quiet  lengths  of  days  they  came, 
With  scarce  a  change  to  this  repose ; 

Of  all  life's  loveliness  they  took 
The  thorn  without  the  rose. 

But  in  the  porch  and  o'er  the  graves, 
Glad  rings  the  southward  robin's  glee, 

And  sparrows  fill  the  autumn  air 
With  merry  mutiny  ; 

While  on  the  graves  of  drab  and  gray 
The  red  and  gold  of  autumn  lie, 

And  willful  Nature  decks  the  sod 
In  gentlest  mockery. 


LINES  TO  A  DESERTED  STUDY. 

HUSH  !     Feel  ye  not  around  us  teem 

The  shapes  that  haunted  Goethe's  dream  ? 

When  lifted  genius  mused  apart, 

And  taste  inspired  the  soul  of  art ; 

Young  first  Love,  coy  with  trembling  wings, 

And  Hope,  the  lark  that  soaring  sings, 

And  boyhood  friendships  prone  to  fade 

Through  pleasant  zones  of  sun  and  shade ; 

With  many  a  phantom  born  of  youth, 

The  trust  in  honor,  faith,  and  truth 

That  fails  in  after  years ; 

The  perfect  pearls  of  life's  young  dream 

Dissolved  in  manhood's  tears. 

Through  Time's  swift  loom  our  joys  and  griefs 

In  braided  strands  together  run ; 


LINES   TO  A   DESERTED  STUDY.  57 

To  weave  about  this  world  of  ours 

Wild  tapestries  of  shade  and  sun. 

And  seems  it  not  as  if  to-night, 

Dear,  dusty,  many-memoried  room, 

Our  souls  had  lost  the  threads  of  light, 

And  like  the  eve  kept  gathering  gloom? 

Ay,  and  for  one  of  us  the  hour 

Must  have,  methinks,  a  double  power, 

As  backward  turns  his  saddened  look, 

To  view  again  those  many  scenes, 

When  life  was  like  an  uncut  book, 

And  Joy  was   in  her  rosy  teens. 

Yes,  even  we  who  later  knew 

The  home  of  friendship  and  of  taste, 

Stand  saddened  by  the  parting  view 

Of  scenes  by  recollection  graced. 

Ah,  there  the  books  looked  meekly  out 

Above  an  alligator's  snout  ; 

And  bugs  and  fossils,  birds  and  bones, 

Round-shouldered  bottles,  jars,  and  stones, 


58  LINES  TO  A  DESERTED  STUDY. 

Stood  up  in  order  sage,  — 

Memorials  they  of  every  clime, 

Remains  of  every  age. 

Oh,  yes,  't  was  here  at  eventide 

We  lingered  by  the  table's  side, 

Whilst  Wit  her  lightning  stories  told, 

And  through  Havana's  clouds  of  gold 

The  thunder-storm  of  laughter  rolled, 

Till  Mirth  her  very  contrast  brought, 

And  drooped  the  brow  in  earnest  thought; 

While  tranced  we  sat,  as  now  we  sit, 

And  fast  the  parting  time  draws  near, 

And  these  stained  walls  seem  gathering  grace 

As  if  to  grow  more  doubly  dear  ; 

And  not  an  ink-mark  on  the  boards 

But  wears  a  half-appealing  look. 

The  mottled  wall,  the  naked  floor, 

I  read  them  as  ye  read  a  book,  — 

As  if  they  something  had  to  say, 

And  sought  but  could  not  find  a  way ; 


LINES  TO  A  DESERTED  STUDY.  59 

As  often  'raid  the  waning  year, 
In  brown-cheeked  autumn's  bowers, 
The  leaves  ye  tread  seem  rustling  low,  — 
Tread  gently,  we  were  flowers. 


ELK   COUNTY. 

FROM  lands  of  the  elk  and  the  pine-tree, 
Of  hemlock  and  whitewood  and  maple, 
You  ask  me  to  write  you  a  lyric 
Shall  thrill  with  the  cries  of  the  forest, 
And  flow  like  the  sap  of  the  maple,  — 
The  rich  yellow  blood  of  the  maple, 
That  hath  such  a  wild,  lusty  sweetness, 
Such  a  taste  of  the  wilderness  in  it. 
And  surely  't  were  pleasant  to  summon 
The  days  which  so  lately  have  vanished, 
The  friends  who  were  part  of  their  pleasure. 
Right  cheery  for  me,  in  the  city, 
To  think  once  again  of  the  sunsets 
We  watched  from  the  crest  of  the  hill-top, 
Alone  on  the  stumps  in  the  clearing ; 


ELK  COUNTY.  61 

When  all  the  grand  slopes  of  the  mountains, 

Our  own  hills,  our  loved  Alleghanies, 

Grow  hazy  and  drowsy  and  solemn, 

Cloaked  each  with  the  shade  of  his  neighbor ; 

Like  rigid  old  Puritans  scorning 

The  passion  and  riot  of  color, 

Of  yellow  and  purple  and  scarlet, 

Which  haunt  the  gay  court  of  the  sunset, 

Where  Eve,  like  a  wild  Cinderella, 

Awaits  the  gray  fairy  of  twilight. 

Sweet,  ever,  to  think  of  the  forests, 

Their  cool,  woody  fragrance  delicious ; 

To  think  of  the  camp  fires  we  builded 

To  baffle  those  terrible  pungies; 

To  think  how  we  wandered,  bewildered 

With  wood-dreams  and  delicate  fancies 

Unknown  to  the  life  of  the  city. 

To  tread  but  those  cushioning  mosses ; 

To  lie,  almost  float,  on  the  fern-beds ; 

To  feel  the  crisp  crush  of  the  foot  on 


62  ELK  COUNTY. 

The  mouldering  logs  of  the  windfall, 
Were  things  to  be  held  in  remembrance. 
Dost  recall  how  we  lingered  to  listen 
The  sound  of  the  wood-robin's  bugle, 
Or  bent  the  witch-hopple  to  guide  us, 
As  one  folds  the  page  he  is  reading, 
And  felt,  as  we  peered  through  the  stillness, 
Through  armies  and  legions  of  tree-trunks, 
Such  solemn  and  brooding  sensations 
As  told  of  the  birth  of  religions, 
As  whispered  how  men  grow  to  Druids 
When  the  fly-wheel  of  work  is  arrested, 
And  they  live  but  the  life  of  the  forest  ? 
Ay,  here  in  the  face  of  the  woodman, 
You  see  how  the  woods  have  been  preaching, 
As  he  leans  on  the  logs  of  his  cabin 
To  watch  the  prim  city-folk  coming 
O'er  the  chips,  and  the  twigs,  and  the  stubble, 
Through  the  fire-scarred  stumps,  and  the  hem 
locks 


ELK   COUNTY.  63 

His  axe  hath  so  ruthlessly  girdled. 
Ay,  he  too  has  learned  in  the  forest, 
One  half  of  him  Nimrod  and  slayer, 
Unsparing,  enduring,  and  tireless, 
In  wait  for  the  deer  at  the  salt  lick  ; 
Yet  one  stronger  half  of  his  nature  — 
This  rough  and  bold  out-of-door  nature, 
Hath  touches  of  sadness  upon  it, 
And  is  grown  to  the  ways  of  the  forest, 
Till  wildness  and  softness  together 
Are  one  with  the  sap  of  his  being. 

Right  pleasant  it  were,  friend  and  lady, 
To  tell  you  some  tale  of  the  woodland  ; 
To  hear  the  faint  voice  of  tradition, 
Of  childish  and  simple  conceptions, 
And  find  in  their  half-spoken  meanings 
Some  thought  all  the  nations  have  muttered 
In  the  parable  tongues  of  their  childhood. 
But  alas  for  the  tale  and  the  writer ! 


64  ELK  COUNTY. 

The  land  has  no  story  to  tell  us,  — 

No  voice  save  the  Clarion's  waters, 

No  song  save  the  murm'rous  confusion 

Of  winds  gone  astray  in  the  pine-tops, 

Or  the  roar  of  the  rain  on  the  hemlocks ;  — 

No  record,  no  sign,  not  a  word  of 

The  lords  of  the  axe  and  the  rifle, 

Who  camped  by  the  smooth  Alleghany, 

And  blazed  the  first  tree  on  the  mountain. 

Yet  here,  even  here  in  the  forest,  — 

The  soul-calming  deep  of  the  forest, 

Where  cat-birds  are  noisy  and  dauntless, 

And  deft  little  miserly  squirrels 

Are  hoarding  the  beech-nuts  for  winter ; 

Where  rattlesnakes  charm,  and  the  hoot-owl 

By  night  sounds  his  murderous  war-pipe, — 

Yes,  here  in  the  last  home  of  Nature, 

Where  the  greenness  that  swells  o'er  the  hillock 

Is  pink  with  the  blossoming  laurel, 

The  wants  of  the  city  still  haunt  us, 


ELK  COUNTY.  65 

When  busy  blue  axes  are  ringing, 
And  totter  the  kings  of  the  mountain. 
Ah,  well  you  recall,  I  can  fancy, 
The  morn  we  looked  down  on  the  valley 
That  bears  the  proud  name  of  the  battle, 
Itself  a  fair  field  for  the  winning; 
Recall,  too,  the  frank  speech  which  told  us 
Who  felled  the  first  tree  in  the  valley 
Where  now  the  red  heifers  are  browsing, 
And  reapers  are  swinging  their  cradles, 
And  fat  grow  the  stacks  with  the  harvest. 
Canst  see,  too,  the  dam  and  the  mill-pond, 
The  trees  in  the  dark  amber  water, 
Where  thousands  of  pine  logs  are  tethered, 
With  maple  and  black  birch  and  cherry? 
Canst  hear,  as  I  hear,  the  gay  hum  of 
The  bright  whizzing  saw  in  the  steam-mill, 
Its  up-and-down  old-fashioned  neighbor 
Singing,  "  Go  it  !  "  and  "  Go  it !  "  and  "  Go  it !  " 
As  it  whirrs  through  the  heart  of  the  pine-tree, 

5 


66  ELK  COUNTY. 

And  spouts  out  the  saw-dust,  and  filleth 
The  air  with  its  resinous  odors  ? 
Ay,  gnaw  at  them  morning  and  evening, 
Thou  hungry  old  dog  of  a  saw-mill! 
The  planks  thou  art  shaping  so  deftly 
Shall  ring  with  the  tramp  of  the  raftsmen, 
Shall  drift  on  the  shallow  Ohio, 
Shall  build  thy  fair  homes,  Cincinnati, 
Shall  see  the  gay  steamers  go  by  them, 
Shall  float  on  the  broad  Mississippi, 
Shall  floor  the  rough  cabins  of  Kansas. 

And  here  is  a  tale  for  the  poet, — 
A  story  of  Saxon  endurance, 
A  story  of  work  and  completion, 
A  legend  of  rough-handed  labor 
As  wild  as  the  runes  of  the  fiords. 


CAMP-FIRE   LYRICS. 

A  CAMP  IN  THREE  LIGHTS. 
AGAINST  the  darkness  sharply  lined 

Our  still  white  tents  gleamed  overhead, 
And  dancing  cones  of  shadow  cast 

When  sudden  flashed  the  camp-fire  red, 

Where  fragrant  hummed  the  moist  swamp-spruce, 
And  tongues  unknown  the  cedar  spoke, 

While  half  a  century's  silent  growth 
Went  up  in  cheery  flame  and  smoke. 

Pile  on  the  logs !     A  flickering  spire 
Of  ruby  flame  the  birch-bark  gives, 

And  as  we  track  its  leaping  sparks, 
Behold  in  heaven  the  North-light  lives  ! 


68  CAMP-FIRE  LYRICS. 

An  arch  of  deep,  supremest  blue, 
A  band  above  of  silver  shade, 

Where,  like  the  frost-work's  crystal  spears, 
A  thousand  lances  grow  and  fade, 

Or  shiver,  touched  with  palest  tints 
Of  pink  and  blue,  and  changing  die, 

Or  toss  in  one  triumphant  blaze 
Their  golden  banners  up  the  sky, 

With  faint,  swift,  silken  murmurings, 
A  noise  as  of  an  angel's  flight, 

Heard  like  the  whispers  of  a  dream 
Across  the  cool,  clear  northern  night. 

Our  pipes  are  out,  the  camp-fire  fades, 
The  wild  auroral  ghost-lights  die, 

And  stealing  up  the  distant  wood 

The  moon's  white  spectre  floats  on  high, 


CAMP-FIRE  LYRICS.  69 

And,  lingering,  sets  in  awful  light 
A  blackened  pine-tree's  ghastly  cross, 

Then  swiftly  pays  in  silver  white 
The  faded  fire,  the  aurora's  loss. 


NIGHT— LAKE   HELEN. 

I  LIE  in  my  red  canoe 

On  the  waters  still  and  deep, 
And  o'er  me  darkens  the  sky, 

And  beneath  the  billows  sleep  ; 

Till,  between  the  stars  above 

And  those  in  the  lake's  embrace, 

I  seem  to  float  like  the  dead 
In  the  noiselessness  of  space. 

Betwixt  two  worlds  I  drift, 
A  bodiless  soul  again, — 


70  CAMP-FIRE  LYRICS. 

Between  the  still  thoughts  of  God 
And  those  which  belong  to  men ; 

And  out  of  the  height  above, 
And  out  of  the  deep  below, 

A  thought  that  is  like  a  ghost 
Doth  gather  and  gain  and  grow, 

That  now  and  forevermore 

This  silence  of  death  shall  hold, 

While  the  nations  fade  and  die, 
And  the  countless  years  are  rolled. 

But  I  turn  the  light  canoe, 
And,  darting  across  the  night, 

Am  glad  of  the  paddles'  noise 
And  the  camp-fire's  honest  light. 


CAMP-FIRE  LYRICS.  71 

NIPIGON  LAKE. 

HIGH-SHOULDERED  and  ruddy  and  sturdy, 
Like  droves  of  pre-Adamite  monsters, 
The  vast  mounded  rocks  of  red  basalt 
Lie  basking  round  Nipigon's  waters  ; 
And  still  lies  the  lake,  as  if  fearing 
To  trouble  their  centuried  slumber  ; 
And  heavy  o'er  lake  and  in  heaven 
A  dim  veil  of  smoke  tells  of  forests 
Ablaze  in  the  far  lonely  Northland: 
And  over  us,  blood-red  and  sullen, 
The  sun  shines  on  gray-shrouded  islands, 
And  under  us,  blood-red  and  sullen, 
The  sun  in  the  dark  umber  water 
Looks  up  at  the  gray,  murky  heaven, 
While  one  lonely  loon  on  the  water 
Is  wailing  his  mate,  and  beside  us 
Two  shaggy-haired  Chippewa  children 
In  silence  watch  sadly  the  white  man. 


72  CAMP-FIRE  LYRICS. 


EVENING  STORM  — NIPIGON. 

UPON  the  beach,  with  low,  quick,  mournful  sob, 
The  weary  waters  shudder  to  our  feet ; 
And  far  beyond  the  sunset's  golden  light, 
Forever  brighter  in  its  lessening  span, 
Shares  not  the  sadness  of  yon  grim  wood-wall, 
Whose  dark  and  noiseless  deeps  of  shadow  rest 
In  sullen  gloom  'twixt  golden  lake  and  sky. 
Shine  out,  fair  light,  in  yellow  glory  shine ! 
Fast  fades  the  lessening  day,  and  far  beneath 
The  tamarack  shivers  and  the  cedar's  cone 
Uneasy  sways,  while  fitful  tremors  stir 
The  tattered  livery  of  the  ragged  birch ; 
And  over  all  the  arch  of  heaven  is  wild 
With  tumbled  clouds,  where  fast  the  lightning's 

lance 

Gleams  ruby  red  and  thunder-echoes  roll ; 
Whilst  yet  below  —  sweet  as  the  dream  of  hope 


CAMP-FIRE  LYRICS.  73 

What  time  despair  is  nearest  —  lies  the  lake. 
Fast  comes  the  storm ;  spiked  black  with  patter 
ing  rain, 

The  darkened  water  gleams  with  bells  of  foam. 
Fast  comes  the  storm,  till  over  lake  and  sky, 
O'er  yellow  lake  and  ever-yellowing  sky, 
Cruel  and  cold,  the  gray  storm-twilights  rest ; 
And  so  the  day  before  its  time  is  dead. 


NOONDAY  WOODS  —  NIPIGON. 

BETWEEN  thin  ringers  of  the  pine 

The  fluid  gold  of  sunlight  slips, 
And  through  the  tamarack's  gray-green  fringe 

Upon  the  level  birch  leaves  drips. 

Through  all  the  still,  moist  forest  air 

Slow  trickles  down  the  soft,  warm  sheen, 

And  flecks  the  branching  wood  of  ferns 
With  tender  tints  of  pallid  green, 


74  CAMP-FIRE  LYRICS. 

To  rest  where  close  to  mouldered  trunks 
The  red  and  purple  berries  lie, 

Where  tiny  jungles  of  the  moss 
Their  tropic  forests, rear  on  high. 

Fast,  fast  asleep  the  woodland  rests, 
Stirs  not  the  tamarack's  topmost  sheaf, 

And  slow  the  subtle  sunlight  glides 
With  noiseless  step  from  leaf  to  leaf. 

And  lo,  he  comes  !  the  fairy  prince, 
The  heir  of  richer,  softer  strands  : 

A  summer  guest  of  sterner  climes, 
He  moves  across  the  vassal  lands. 

And  lo,  he  comes !  the  fairy  prince, 
The  joyous  sweet  southwestern  breeze : 

He  bounds  across  the  dreaming  lake, 
And  bends  to  kiss  the  startled  trees, 


CAMP-FIRE  LYRICS.  75 

Till  all  the  woodland  wakes  to  life, 

The  pheasant  chirps,  the  chipmunks  cry, 

And  scattered  flakes  of  golden  light 
Athwart  the  dark  wood-spaces  fly. 

Ah,  but  a  moment,  and  away ! 

The  fair,  false  prince  has  kissed  and  fled: 
No  more  the  wood  shall  feel  his  touch, 

No  more  shall  know  his  joyous  tread. 


PADDLE-SONG.1 

THE  mist  is  thick,  the  waters  quick, 

And  fast  we  flit  along; 
The  foam-bells  flash,  the  paddles  splash, 

Sing  us  a  merry  song. 

What 's  this  I  see  come  swift  to  me 
Across  the  rapids  dark  ? 

1  Freely  rendered  from  a  Canadian  chanson. 


76  CAMP-FIRE  LYRICS. 

A  princess  fair,  with  yellow  hair, 
A  red  canoe  of  bark. 

Her  golden  hair  floats  thick  and  fair 

Far,  far  behind  her  lee, 
And  pike  and  trout  come  leaping  out, 

Her  merry  locks  to  see. 

With  a  silver  gun,  a  silver  gun, 
The  tall  white  swan  she  slew : 

He  moaned  a  hymn,  his  sight  grew  dim, 
It  might  have  been  I  or  you. 

The  feathers,  white  as  the  still  moonlight, 

Toss  red  on  the  waters  free, 
And  gay  trout  break  the  silent  lake, 

The  small  white  boats  to  see. 

The  silver  ball  has  found  his  heart : 
It  might  have  hit  you  or  me. 


CAMP-FIRE  LYRICS.  77 

The  round  white  ball  has  found  his  heart: 
Ah  sad !  ah  sad  to  see ! 

Quick  is  the  flash  of  her  paddle's  dash, 

And  far  and  free  behind, 
In  the  roar  and  splash  of  the  rapids'  crash, 

Her  hair  floats  on  the  wind. 

Turn  not  to  view  her  swift  canoe ; 

Ave  Maria !   beware  !   beware  ! 
Look  not  behind,  where  wave  and  wind 

Roll  out  her  rippled  hair. 

AFTER  SUNSET  — LAKE   WEELOKENEBAKOK. 

AT  twilight  Azescohos  lieth 
With  domes  that  are  builded  of  color  : 
Its  deep- wrinkled  strata  and  bowlders, 
Its  sombre-leaved  greenness  of  noonday, 
Fade  lost  in  the  blue  misty  splendor 


78  CAMP-FIRE  LYRICS. 

That  seems  like  the  soul  of  a  color ; 
While  far,  far  away  to  the  eastward 
One  vast  fading  glory  of  scarlet  — 
A  color  that  seems  as  if  living  — 
Possesses  the  sky  like  a  passion, 
And  higher  and  higher  in  heaven 
Fades  out  in  the  soft  bluish  greenness 
That  climbs  to  the  zenith  above  us. 
Below,  far  below,  as  if  thinking, 
At  rest  lies  the  sensitive  lake ;  and 
Like  one  who  sings  but  to  her  own  heart 
Such  thoughts  as  a  loving  lip  whispers, 
So  deep  in  the  waters  are  pictured 
The  beauty  of  sunset  and  hill-side. 
For  the  blue  that  was  blue  on  the  mountain, 
Seen  deep  in  the  heart  of  the  water, 
Hath  the  touch  of  some  blessing  upon  it, — 
Some  strangeness  of  purity  in  it, 
Like  color  that  shall  be  in  heaven. 
This  water-held  vision  of  sunset, 


CAMP-FIRE  LYRICS.  79 

Ablaze  in  the  depths  of  the  darkness, 

Is  it  but  for  the  sight  ?    Canst  not  hear  it, 

This  prophet  of  color,  to  tell  us 

Of  what  may  be  yet,  when  the  senses 

Awaken  to  lordlier  being, 

And  the  thought  of  the  blind  man  is  ours? 

When  colors  unearthly  men  know  not 

Shall  float  from,  the  trumpets  of  angels, 

And  tints  of  the  glory  of  heaven 

Shall  be  for  us  color  and  music? 


FRAGMENT   OF    A    CHIPPEWA  LEGEND. 

DESPAIRING  and  sunburnt  and  thirsty, 
The  forest-trees  bend  o'er  the  lake-brink, 
Where,  mocking  them,  chatter  the  squirrels 
At  play  on  the  mouldering  mosses; 
While  over  them,  blue  and  relentless, 
Rise,  cloudless  and  sultry,  the  heavens. 
And  where,  cried  the  pine-tree  in  anger, 
Ah,  where  is  my  warrior  North  Wind? 
Asleep,  quoth  the  gossiping  chipmunk, 
On  white-bosomed  snows  of  the  Northland. 
And  where,  moaned  the  glossy-limbed  beeches, 
Where  hide  our  sweet  chiefs  of  the  summer, 
The  rose-breathing  South  and  the  West  Wind  ? 
Shrilled  sharply  the  loon,  from  the  water, 
In  gardens  of  jasmine  they  wander, 


FRAGMENT  OF  A    CHIPPEWA   LEGEND.       81 

In  tents  of  the  lily  they  linger. 
Spake  sadly  the  tamarack  stately : 
O'er  forest  and  mountain  top  vainly 
A-weary  I  watch  for  the  East  Wind, — 
My  wild  warring  rover,  the  East  Wind, 
Who  smites  the  dark  sea  in  his  fury, 
And  comes  to  me  eager  and  angry. 
Forgotten,  forgotten,  forgotten, 
The  nightingale  l  sings  from  the  elders. 

1  The  Canadian  nightingale ;  so  called  by  the  voyageurs.     I  have 
never  heard  him  sing  at  night. 


THE   MARSH. 

SAFELY  moored  on  the  dappled  water, 
The  broad  green  lily-pads  dip  and  sway, 

While,  like  a  skipper,  a  gray  frog  rides 
The  biggest  leaf  in  the  tiny  bay. 

Merrily  leap  the  brown-cheeked  waves 
To  seize  the  sunlight's  liberal  gold, 

Which  shakes  and  flickers  among  the  reeds, 
And  on  the  stones  of  the  beach  is  rolled. 

O'er  marish  meadows,  and  far  beyond, 
Silken  and  green  or  velvety  gray, 

Tufted  grasses  with  shifting  colors 

In  the  wholesome  north  wind  toss  and  play, 


THE  MARSH.  83 

Lonely  and  sad,  on  the  sea  of  green, 

The  cardinal-flower  a  light-house  stands,  — 

A  scarlet  blaze  in  the  morning  sun, 
To  guide  the  honey-bees'  toiling  bands. 

What  was  it  for,  this  flower's  beauty, 

Its  royal  color's  marvelous  glow? 
Not,  like  a  good  deed,  still  rejoicing 

The  soul  that  grew  it,  though  no  one  know. 

All  unconscious,  only  a  flower, 

Life  without  zest,  and  death  without  thought ; 
Lost  as  a  stone  to  the  sweet,  deep  pleasure 

Its  scarlet  wonder  to  me  has  brought. 

Has  it,  I  ponder,  no  sense  of  pleasing, 
No  least  estate  in  the  world  of  joy? 

Have  the  leaf  and  the  grass  no  conscious  sense 
Of  what  they  give  us,  —  no  want  or  cloy  ? 


84  THE  MARSH. 

Not  so  unlike  us.     The  words  that  weight  us 
With  keenest  sorrow  and  longest  pain 

Fall  oft  from  lips  that  rest  unconscious 
If  that  they  give  us  be  loss  or  gain. 

Do  I  only  have  power  to  fill  me 

From  sun  and  flower  with  joy  intense  ? 

Has  yon  cold  frog  on  his  lonely  leaf  raft 
No  lower  share  through  a  duller  sense? 

Think  you  the  ladies  he  woos  are  sought 
For  form,  or  color,  or  beauty's  sake? 

That,  touched  with  sorrow,  he  mourns  to-day 
Some  mottled  Helen  beneath  the  lake  ? 

Why  should  fret  us  this  constant  riddle, 
To  know  if  Nature  be  kind  or  harsh 

To  the  pensive  frog  on  his  green-ribbed  float, 
The  scarlet  queen  of  the  lonely  marsh? 


TEE  MARSH.  85 

Haply,  in  thought-spheres  far  above  us, 
Some  may  watch  us  with  larger  powers, 

Asking  if  we  have  wit  or  reason, 
Asking  if  pain  or  joy  be  ours. 

But  does  it  vex  me,  this  endless  riddle 
I  toss  about  in  my  helpless  brain, 

To  know  if  life  be  worth  the  having, 
If  just  mere  being  be  any  gain? 

Scarce  can  I  answer.     Something  surely 

The   thought    has    brought    me   this   summer 
morn,  — 

Something  for  me  in  life  were  missing 
If  frog  and  flower  had  ne'er  been  born. 


A   CONCEIT. 

LOITERING  scents  from  the  garden  come, 
Blown  from  shelter  of  wind-stirred  trees; 

Like  bits  of  song  from  the  lips  we  love, 
They  rise  and  fade  on  the  evening  breeze. 

And  shall  we  marry  in  wedlock  sweet 
The  poet's  soul  and  the  floweret's  breath, 

And,  musing,  wonder  what  many  tongues 
The  yearning  singer  may  gain  in  death  ? 

Who  wilt  thou  hear  in  the  rich  wild  scents 
Of  the  ancient  gardens'  well-trimmed  shade? 

Who  shall  the  jessamine's  laureate  be, 
And  who  for  the  summer's  noble  maid? 


A    CONCEIT.  87 

The  great  red  rose  shall  tell  us  in  song 
Her  tender  passion  of  sweet  perfume; 

And  whose  shall  the  frail  clematis  be, 

With  its  faint  aroma  and  fringe  of  bloom? 

Wilt  give  unto  Keats  the  waiting  rose ; 

To  Shelley's  voice  the  violet's  scent ; 
And  Spenser's  measure  of  stately  song, 

To  haunt  the  lily's  silvery  tent. 


MILAN. 

DA    VINCI'S    CHRIST. 

ALL  day  long,  year  after  year, 

Maid  and  man  and  priest  and  lay 

Wander  in  from  crowded  streets, 

And  through  the  long,  cool  gallery  stray. 

And  with  them,  in  the  fading  light, 
We  loiter  past  the  pictured  wall, 

Till  lo !  a  face  before  us  comes, 

And  something  wistful  seems  to  fall 

From  two  strange  eyes  that  stay  all  steps; 

For  here  a  priest,  and  there  a  maid, 
Two  lads,  a  soldier,  and  a  bonne, 

Before  the  rail  their  steps  have  stayed. 

- 


MILAN:    DA  VINCI'S   CHRIST.  89 

What  message  bore  this  awful  face, 

Through  all  the  waning  centuries  fled? 

What  says  it  to  the  gazer  now? 
What  said  it  to  the  myriad  dead 

Who  came  and  went  like  us  to-day, 
And,  pausing  here  in  silence,  all 

In  silence  laid  their  weight  of  sins 
Before  this  grand  confessional  ? 

A  face  more  sad  man  never  dreamed, 
A  face  more  sweet  man  never  wrought ; 

So  solemn-sad,  so  solemn-sweet, 
Serenely  set  in  quiet  thought. 

The  silent  sunlight  slips  away, 

The  soldiers  pass,  the  bonne  goes  by  ; 

The  painter  drapes  his  copy  in, 

And  stops  his  work  and  heaves  a  sigh. 


90  MILAN:  DA    VINCI'S  CHRIST. 

And  followed  by  those  eyes,  that  have 

The  patience  of  eternity, 
We  carry  to  the  bustling  street 

Their  loving  Benedidte. 


BRUGES:   QUAI  DES   AUGUSTINS. 
(AFTER  VAN  DER  VEER.) 

WITHEST  the  sad,  deserted  street, 
We  stand  a  little  space  to  gaze, 

Beneath  the  high-walled  garden's  shade, 
Amid  the  twilight's  growing  haze. 

The  still  depths  of  the  dark  canal, 
Between  gray  walls  of  ancient  stone, 

Stir  not  to  any  wind  that  blows, 
And  seem  so  silent,  so  alone, 

We   wonder  at  the  lazy  swans 

That  o'er  the  water  dare  to  glide, 

And  marvel  at  the  lads  who  cast 
Their  pebbles  from  the  bridge's  side. 


92  BRUGES:   QUA  I  DES  AUGUSTINS. 

Quaint  houses  bound  the  darksome  wave, 
Time-tinted,  yellow,  umber,  gray, 

With  gaping  gargoyles  overhead, 
And  underneath  sweet  gardens  gay, 

With  ivy,  flung  like  cloaks  of  green 
Upon  the  worn  and  mottled  wall; 

Forgotten  centuries  ago 

By  burgher  dames  at  even-fall. 

Across  the  narrow  space  of  flowers, 

A  maid  in  scarlet  petticoat 
Comes  with  her  shining  pail  of  brass, 

And  bends  above  the  moveless  moat ; 

V 

And  breaks  her  image  with  the  pail, 
And  scares  the  swans,  and  trips  away, 

And  leaves  the  stern,  gray,  sombre  street 
To  silence  and  the  waning  day. 


NEAR   AMSTERDAM. 
(AFTER  ALBERT  CUTP.) 

SOBER  gray  skies  and  ponderous  clouds, 
With  gaps  between  of  pallid  blues  ; 

Bluff  breezes  stirring  the  brown  canal ; 
A  broad,  flat  meadow's  myriad  hues 

Of  soft  and  changeful  breadths  of  green, 
Barred  with  the  silvery  grass  that  bows 

By  straight  canals,  and  dotted  o'er 

With  black  and  white  of  basking  cows; 

And  distant  sails  of  hidden  ships 

The  ceaseless  windmills  show  or  hide, 

And  through  the  languid  willows  gleam, 
And  over  red-tiled  houses  glide. 


94  NEAR  AMSTERDAM. 

Two  sturdy  lads  with  wooden  shoes, 

Go  clumping  down  the  reed-fringed  dyke, 

And  tow  a  broad-bowed  boat,  where  dreams 
The  quaint,  sweet  virgin  of  Van  Eyck. 

And  slipt  from  out  the  revel  high, 

Where  gay  Franz  Hals  has  bid  him  sit, 

Above  the  bridge,  his  lazy  pipe 

Smokes  placidly  the  stout  De  Witt. 


NEAR  UTRECHT. 

(AFTER  TENTERS.) 

A  QUIET  curve  of  sombre  brown  water, 

Flecked     with     duck-weed    and     dotted     with 
leaves ; 

A  low  brick  cottage,  where  shadows  nestle 
'Neath  velvet  edges  of  well-thatched  eaves. 

In  front  a  space,  with  its  gaudy  dahlias 
And  solid  shade  of  the  branching  lime, 

Where,  soberly  gay,  two  boors  are  drinking 
In  the  deep'ning  gloom  of  the  evening  time. 


ON   A    PICTURE   BY   ALBERT   CUYP. 

A  SUNSET  silence  holds  the  patient  land  ; 
Against  the  sun  the  stolid  cattle  stand ; 
Framed  hazy,  in  the  gold  that  slips 
Between  the  sails  of  lazy  ships, 
And  floods  with  level  yellow  light 
The  broad  green  meadow  grasses  bright. 


AMSTERDAM    GALLERY. 
(AFTER  RUYSDAEL.) 

THEOUGH  briery  ways,  from  underneath 
The  far-off  sadness  of  the  gold 

That  fades  above  the  sun,  the  waves 
Swift  to  our  very  feet  are  rolled. 

Above,  beyond,  to  either  side, 

The  sombre  woods  bend  overhead  ; 

And  underneath,  the  wild  brown  waves 
Leap  joyously,  with  lightsome  tread, 

From  rock  to  rock,  and  laugh  and  sing, 
Like  lonely  maids  in  woods  at  play ; 

Till  in  the  cold,  still  pool  below, 

A-sudden  checked  they  stand  at  bay, 


98  AMSTERDAM  GALLERY. 

Like  girls  who,  in  their  mood  of  joy, 
To  this  more  solemn  woodland  glide, 

And  with  some  brief,  sweet  terror  touched, 
Stand  wistful,  trembling,  tender-eyed. 

What  half-felt  sense  of  something  gone, 
What  sadness  in  the  moveless  woods  ; 

What  sorrow  haunts  yon  amber  sky, 
That  over  all  so  darkly  broods! 


Mitchell,  Is.--. 

The    hllfl     of    n-t-nn«* 

953 
K682 
hil 

*iio    J1J.AJ.    UJL    ouunes. 
and  other  poems 

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